


bleeding out

by magicarnival



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Baby, Children, F/M, Gen, POV Second Person, ichirukimonth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicarnival/pseuds/magicarnival
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This isn't how it's supposed to happen,' you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bleeding out

_This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen_ , you think.

Renji paces like a caged tiger as he rails against Rukia—calling her a stubborn fool, a selfish bitch, and ten different variations of moron, all accompanied by a collection of colorful expletives you aren’t even sure are real words. His grief is so raw and pure, you almost feel guilty witnessing it. But, thankfully, Renji doesn’t blame you.

Byakuya is not so kind.

You can feel his reiatsu snap from miles away when he gets the news. Flaring and lashing out like a tiny nuclear explosion, a far cry from the usual calm veil of power he kept wrapped around himself, the corners carefully tucked in so as not to offend the weaker shinigami around him – a cool, indifferent, impenetrable shield. But now it roils and lashes out, wild and angry like you’ve never seen it before, a furious gnashing wind that could strip the very flesh from your bones if you aren’t careful. Just being in the same room with the man feels as if you’re being cut by every blade of Senbonzakura itself.

As he stands by her bedside, his expression is icy—impossibly colder than usual—but when he looks at you his eyes _burn_. His expression had always been one of cool arrogance, haughty indifference, and infuriatingly justified superiority, the way a bird might look upon a bug. But now, there is none of that detachment, that distance, only seething hatred; a yawning pit that threatens to swallow you whole. Meeting his eyes, you can almost _see_ him regretting handing her off to you at the altar—with that faint nod of approval, that whisper of a smile cracking his granite face—you can almost see him regretting trusting you with her life, her happiness.

You had always known—sort of peripherally—that Rukia was important to him, but they interacted so rarely in public and Rukia spoke so little about him or their relationship, that you hadn’t truly realized _how_ important.

But you realize it now in the way he looks at you with eyes like black holes, empty and furious and ready to simultaneously crush you and tear you apart.

Although it was _her_ choice, her decision, Byakuya lays the blame at your feet like a broken heart.

Then again, you can’t really hold it against him.

You blame yourself too.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not as if you’ve never imagined life without her. Hell, you’ve _lived_ it before.

But you hadn’t quite been in love with her then, just on the cusp of it. It had been easier to say goodbye when you hadn’t known the taste of her skin, the feel of her warmth in your arms, the sound of your name on her lips against yours. It had been easier to say goodbye when you still hadn’t said _I love you_.

Inoue calls almost every day. You let it ring to voicemail most of the time, but answer it every once in a while because you suspect she is calling to make sure you haven’t done something stupid and reckless and vaguely suicidal—and to be fair, her fears aren’t totally unfounded. You’d done that sort of thing the last time you thought Rukia was dead.

But really, her concern is only an unnecessary annoyance because no matter how many enemies you crush, no matter how much more power you gain, you still won’t make it in the time to save her.

You think that maybe it was already too late the moment you met her.

 

* * *

 

Rukia had explained—with an exasperated sigh—that Shinigami were incapable of having children naturally. They were, after all,  _dead_ . ( _Dumbass_ , she implied with the roll of her eyes and the tightening of her legs around his hips.)

Of course there were ways to do it, but it wasn’t practical for all of Seireitei and Rugonkai to be popping out children left and right when there were so many coming from the living world every day. Granted, much fewer now than one hundred years ago when children were more prone to disease and neglect and abuse, but those things still existed. (She’d explained this so matter-of-factly that you’re almost glad she doesn’t remember her too-brief life in the living world.)

However, her brother was born in the Soul Society, like almost all members of the Noble Houses. There was apparently some sort of secret ritual known among them that allowed them to bring new life into the Soul Society, which explained why the children of the Noble Houses were almost always powerful Shinigami. There was some series of potions in involved, and weird rituals and incense and meditations to do in order to prepare.

“So as long as neither of us have accepted any drinks from strangers and taken up obscure chanting rituals, we’ll be fine,” she’d said. “It’d be impossible for you to get me pregnant.”

But of course, you’ve always been known to do the impossible.

 

* * *

 

It’s three months before you can take it—no, _her_ —home with you. She’d been born premature and spent most of her time in the ICU, where the 4th Division’s healers carefully monitored her fluctuating reiatsu, heart rate, body temperature, lungs, and any other essential bodily functions.

Even now, holding her in yours arms without all the tubes and wires, she seems too small, too fragile, and you worry you’ll break her—which is stupid, you held Karin and Yuzu a million times when you were barely more than a baby yourself.

But it still seems so unreal. It had been so hard to imagine that the smudge in the sonograms or the bulge in Rukia’s stomach was really a living thing and not just some vague notion, some faraway dream. Even now, holding it—holding her, _her_ —you have trouble imagining that this is your new reality, that you’re a _father_.

You look down at the bundle swaddled in pink and adjust your grip, careful to support the head.  A tiny hand catches your finger and squeezes.

_Ah_ , you can’t help but think. _She’s stronger than she looks_.

 

* * *

 

She has Rukia’s eyes. Or at least the color of them, a dark, near-impossible violet, and a semblance of the shape—huge and heavy-lidded and too big for her face. But her hair, when it grows in, is bright, carrot-orange like yours. You aren’t certain whether to be happy about that or not. After all, that hair gave you all kinds of trouble growing up.

She is delicate in the way that all girls are, but not in the graceful, birdlike way Rukia was. Perhaps it’s because she spends so much time around you, imitating your clunky, masculine swagger. She reminds you more of Karin than anyone.

But somehow, as an infant whose main form of communication is pointing and crying, she manages manipulate you to get what she wants. Somehow she’s got you wrapped around her finger before she can even _talk_. Her pouting eyes, her mischievous smiles, her light, bubbly laughter—in those moments she looks so much like Rukia it _hurts_ and you fold like a house of cards. You wonder how she knows—how being able to push your buttons could possibly be _genetic_.

When you look at her, you are simultaneously disappointed and relieved because, for a long time, you cannot decide which would be worse—if she was less like Rukia, or _more_.

 

* * *

 

Urahara, of all people, is quite literally the first to know—even before you or Rukia.

You take Rukia to complain about the faulty gigai after she’d woken up and vomited for half an hour. Gigai weren’t supposed to get sick—they weren’t supposed to vomit or feel woozy or off-balance. So, as soon as the shop opened, you both storm inside and muscle your way to the back where Urahara lounges with a pot of tea. After a bit of puzzled examination, he looks with up a coy smile and breaks the news.

Rukia shakes her head. “That’s impossible.”

“Ah, apparently not,” Urahara counters, looking unreasonably pleased. He snaps his fan open in front of his face, though it does little to hide his grin.

Your eyes narrow.

“Did _you_ do this?” you can’t help but accuse, for as much as he has helped you in the past, he’s never been above manipulating you for his own ends.

Urahara gives you an injured look. “Of course not! You crazy kids did this to yourselves.” He pauses and continues, his tone oddly somber. “But I’ll be happy to run a diagnostic and try to find out how it happened. Kuchiki-san is right, it should be impossible.”

 

* * *

 

You procrastinate on taking her to see your dad. You’re surprised he hasn’t hunted you down or busted into your house demanding to see her, but maybe, for once, he’s respecting your space. When you do finally take her to him, he wails and sobs and holds her up to your mother’s poster on the wall crying big, exaggerated tears as he cries ‘ _Rukia-chan and our delinquent son have finally given us this beautiful, perfect grandchild!’_

And he’s so stupid and obnoxious and overdramatic that, for the first time since the funeral, you smile.

 

* * *

 

You both spend months arguing about names.

It went without saying that there would be no Masakis or Hisanas between you. There would be no children weighted down with the baggage of people long dead, with memories and destinies of other people to their names. The children would be fresh and clean and new.

_Mitsko, child of light._

_Asami, morning beauty._

_Hikari, radiance._

_Yuki, happiness._

_Maiko, dancing child._

“Akane.” Rukia says suddenly one day, her hand pressed against the swell of her stomach. She has turned her face away from you, but there is a strange finality to her tone and the slope of her shoulders seems somewhere between resigned and resolute.

“What?”

“The baby’s name will be Akane.”

_Akane. Brilliant red._

“Oh? Is there something I need to talk to Renji about?”

Rukia quirks a brow as she smirks in your direction. “Ah, you wish. You’re not weaseling out of taking responsibility for this,” she informs you, gesturing at her swollen stomach. “But we’re naming her Akane because it fits.”

You step up behind her, tucking her head under your chin and slide your hand under her bump, feeling the press of tight, too-hot skin even though the layers of her kimono.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” You murmur into her hair.

She smirks, the corners of her mouth turned up. “Certainly. And I reject your opinions. She’s an Akane. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll see.”

Later—when you’re holding your daughter, still painted crimson in her mother’s blood, squalling and flushed with new life—you wonder if Rukia had pressed her hand to her stomach that day, felt the stirrings of power, and known then how it would all end.

_Akane. Brilliant red._

 

* * *

 

There are not many pictures of Rukia, but unlike your father, you have no desire to paste her face all around the house. It’s hard enough to not be reminded of her every time you buy some juice or change the sheets or even just look out your window at night.

There’s the photo from your wedding on the mantle, and a candid shot of her from behind—her face turned up towards the sun, a soft smile on her lips—which you keep on the bedside table in your room. Then there is another picture framed and draped with black curtains, tucked into the tiny shrine you keep for her in the study, where you burn jasmine incense and pretend that she can still hear your prayers. In this picture she is solemn and still, without hint of the energy that made her so _alive_.

Sometimes it makes you laugh to think you have a shrine for someone who was already dead when you met.

 

* * *

 

There’s an enormous pile of parenting books on the bedside table. Rukia had been adamant about educating herself on all aspects of child bearing and child rearing, and each guide was meticulously labeled with sticky notes and highlights and bookmarks. She pours over them with the same obsessive determination as she’d displayed reading shoujo manga in your closet all those years ago. You hadn’t read any of them yourself. You know a bit about pregnancy thanks to med school, though it’s all theoretical since you haven’t had a rotation in the maternity ward yet. The only things you know beyond that are whatever tidbits Rukia finds particularly interesting or disgusting that she simply _has_ to tell you, especially while you’re trying to study. And she’s simply _had_ to tell you everything she’s learned in the past three hours.

“According to Yamamoto Kuchina, you should spend at least ten hours a day holding your baby, to give it the attention and comfort it needs so it doesn’t become clingy and over-dependent later in life. They’re also happier, more intelligent, more social, and more independent! We should get the carrier sling she recommend here—”

“Look, you know most of the stuff in those books are crap, right?” You interrupt, sighing as you throw down your pen. So much for studying. You swing around in your chair to face her, sitting up in the bed, book propped up on her swollen belly. “We’ll be fine without all that junk. We’re _both_ going to be great parents, we don’t need Yamazaki Kuchina or whoever to tell us how to do it.”

Rukia is silent, then her hands tighten on the book and she looks down gaze intent on the pages.

“I just want to know what to expect,” she says evenly. “I want to be a good mother.”

It occurs to you suddenly that Rukia’s never _had_ a mother before. At least, not that she can remember.

“Rukia—”

“Besides,” she interrupts with a smug smile, turning the page of her book. “You’re just jealous that I’m going to be the favorite.”

You pause, then roll your eyes, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you pull the book from her grasp and lean in—

But when you wake, your face is wet with tears and the bedside table is empty.

 

* * *

 

“Daddy, what was mommy like?”

It’s a question you’ve dreaded for a long time because honestly, how do you begin to explain _Rukia?_ How can you put into words all the things she meant to you, all the things she was to you? How can you describe her indescribable charm to someone who’s never met her?

“I don’t look much like her,” Akane says quietly.

It’s true. She’s grown up sturdy and boisterous, a far cry from the delicate, fragile infant you’d brought home from the 4th Division all those years ago. Akane’s tough and cheerful, and lacks the effortless grace of her mother. But she shares the same, dichotomous feminine streak, that odd penchant for stuffed animals and flowery dresses. She still has Rukia’s enormous violet eyes, but the delicate nose and soft oval face are fading.

“You’re like her in other ways,” you say, brushing her hair from her face. “Your mother was… clever. She was quick and graceful and she always knew how to make me smile. Just like you.”

You smile for her now, to prove your point.

But she is too young to parse out the intricacies of Rukia’s personality. Will she have the same sense of duty? The same relentless loyalty? The same stubbornness? The same bossiness? The same stupid self-sacrificial tendencies? (Then again, maybe she’ll get that from you).

 

* * *

 

Akane’s birthdays are always an uncomfortable time for you. You try so, so hard to be happy for her, to celebrate.

And yet, how can you smile on the day that Rukia died?

At times like this, you’re thankful that Byakuya insisted on having her buried on the Kuchiki lands and barred you from setting foot there, because then you have no excuse to avoid Akane’s birthday party to go visit her shrine.

“Uncle Renji, you’re here!” Akane shrieks, leaping up and rushing to him with her arms out and ready. In a practiced move, he grabs her around the waist and hoists her over his shoulder, dangling her half upside down. Akane shrieks with laughter, squealing as he swings her back and forth before setting her back on the ground. It’s their usual, bizarre welcome ritual and even if you’re not sure you approve of Renji tossing your daughter around like a sack of potatoes, you’re not worried about him hurting her.

“Of course,” he says, with a grin. “No way I’d miss my best girl’s party, y’know.”

Except that he usually did. You can’t really hold it against him. You can’t begrudge him his mourning and you’re even a little jealous that he _can_ spend the day remembering.

And maybe you’re just a little bitter to be left behind. Here, in the living world, alone with your memories. Usually you get a call or two from Inoue or Chad, or occasionally Ishida, just to ask if you want to talk. (You never do).

“So, how old are you today, kiddo?”

Akane’s brow wrinkles and she looks at her hands, carefully counting in her head until she folds her fingers down against her palm and holds up the remaining fingers for him, as if he needs the visual clue. “Six!” she announces.

“Six, eh?” Renji laughs. “Just ten more years and you’ll be old enough to be going on dates! Make sure to save one for your Uncle Renji, alright?”

You scowl at him. You’re fairly certain that Renji doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still raises your hackles a bit to imagine Akane on _dates_ at all.

Renji glances in your direction and raises a brow. “What’s the sour look for, eh, Ichigo?”

“Daddy’s always sad on my birthday,” Akane chirps and you avoid meeting Renji’s eyes. “He says it’s ‘cause I’m growin’ up so fast! He wants me to be his little girl forever!”

You feel the weight of Renji’s gaze for a beat before he shifts his attention back to Akane. His voice is soft when he says, “Is that right? Well, I guess I can see where he’s coming from. You probably won’t be half as cute when you’re older.”

“Will too!” She gasps. “Now, what’d you get me?” Akane demands, hopping excitedly.

Renji leads her away towards the table of presents and you wish, not for the first time, that things had been different.

 

* * *

 

You and Renji head out for drinks in Rugonkai after Akane falls asleep. Apparently Renji’s fancy, next-generation gigai automatically filtered out toxins— _Oh? Then why hasn’t it filtered you out yet?_ —so you make your first trip to the Soul Society in six years. Zangetsu feels heavy on your back. Renji drinks sake and you just get a beer because you’ve got work tomorrow, but doesn’t stop there and it isn’t long before you’re both completely trashed. You end up talking about Rukia more than you have in years, but eventually the stories run out and you sit together for a while in companionable silence until Renji breaks it.

“S’not her fault,” he says abruptly, straightening.

You slide a bleary glance in his direction. Your vision swims, and the noise of the bar is a pleasant buzz in the background of your mind. “What?”

“It’s not her fault. Akane’s.” he repeats. “S’not her fault Rukia’s gone and she’d be hella pissed if she thought you were blaming your own damn kid for it.”

You scowl, suddenly angry. “I know, that dumbass. F’course I don’t blame her, geeze.” After all, you blame yourself. You fiddle with your drink, trying to find the words to explain. “S’just… _hard_ , y’know? When I was a kid we’d go to mom’s grave every year and I can’t—we don’t do even that for her. I gotta be… _happy_ and act like—like this wasn’t the worst fucking day of my life.”

“Then think of it as the day Akane was born. Y’know, all the joys of bein’ a father an’ shit. Ain’t makin’ her happy reason enough to crack a smile on her goddamn birthday?”

“I _know_. I don’t need lectures on parenting from _you_.” You scrub your face with your hand and exhale noisily. You are not your father. You cannot laugh when there is nothing to laugh at. You cannot smile when you look at your daughter—the daughter that your wife died for, just like your mother did for you—and pretend that you do not miss Rukia every aching, empty second. You cannot make light of losing her. She _was_ your light. “But I can’t just pretend to forget about her. She was… she was _everything_ and today is just—”

“I loved her too, y’know,” Renji snaps, eyes wild like a wounded beast, and you do—you know—you’ve always known, after all, how could anyone know her and _not_ be at least a little bit in love? But it had hovered unspoken between you both for a long time and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to acknowledge that he was obvious as hell about his feelings—that _everyone_ except Rukia knew he was in love with her—or if you’re supposed to play dumb.

“You were best man at the wedding,” you say after a beat. It’s a statement and a question.

“F’course I was, dumbass. You made her happy, you gave her a place to belong. That’s—” Renji takes a deep breath. “That’s what I’ve always wanted for her.” _What I’ve always wanted to_ do _for her_ , goes unsaid. Renji shakes himself like a dog shaking off water before he speaks again, mumbling almost under his breath, his words slurring with drink and emotion. “I loved her too, and what’ve I got for it? Some—some stupid grave with her name on it? Some old memories? But you—you’ve got—you’ve got a little bit of her right _here_ and you’re just—” He makes some abortive gesture, waving his hands in exasperation.

You are both silent for a while, with only the noise and chatter of the bar between you.

“She’d have loved Akane,” Renji says abruptly, downing the rest of his sake in one swallow. “You’ve done right by her. Raised her right n’ all. She’s a good kid an’ Rukia’d have been proud.”

With that said, he lurches to his feet, stumbling unsteadily to the door. It’s probably as close to an apology as you’re going get. You sit at the bar a while longer, watching the foam in your beer dissipate.

Later, you’re annoyed to realize he left without paying.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, I was wondering if I could discuss with you some of the… _abnormalities_ that we observed?”

All of this is abnormal, from her impossible pregnancy to you being a fucking melting pot for all things supernatural. But yeah, sure. You can talk.

“What is it?”

The Third Seat of the Fourth Division wrings his hands uncertainly then takes a deep breath. You can’t seem to recall his name.

“We believe her contractions have begun because her body has detected the, uh, Hollow reiatsu in the child and is trying to… expel it. And, well, it seems as if the Hollow is—I’m not sure how to put this—it seems to be _retaliating_ somehow.”

“What?”

“Kuchiki-san’s reitasu and the child’s appear to be, well, _fighting_ , as far as our readings indicate.”

“Wh—what can we do to save her?”

The man looks uncomfortable. “Well, removing the child as-is will either, uh, accelerate the Hollowfication process or outright kill the child.”

“What about Rukia? Can you save her?”

The man looks at you gravely for a long moment, clutching his clipboard.

“Kuchiki-san does not want to be saved.”

 

* * *

 

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised it’s taken Byakuya so long to take an interest in his niece. After all, what’s a decade or two to a man who’ll live for centuries? If the rumors are true, he spent nearly _sixty years_ mourning his wife. Then again, it’s not as if you can talk. You can imagine mourning your own for _hundreds_.

So in the grand scheme of things, waiting eight years to meet his niece is no big deal.

“She looks like you,” he says, in such a flat, disapproving tone that you bristle a little.

“Well, yeah, sorry. She is _mine,_ y’know. It’s kinda how genetics work.”

He apparently has nothing to say to that, though you’re not even sure he knows what genetics are. After all, the Soul Society is such a backwards, semi-archaic place that you have no idea where the science ends and the magic hand-waving begins.

“I wish to speak with her,” he says instead.

You scowl. “It’s two in the fucking morning. I’m not waking her up, it’s hard enough getting her to go to sleep in the first place.”

Byakuya seems to consider this then nods. “I’ll return tomorrow at noon.”

“Fine. You’re just lucky I’ve got the day off,” you mutter, but this is Kuchiki Byakuya and you suspect that luck has nothing to do with it. He probably had one of his lackeys sniffing around the clinic, checking your schedule. “And get a gigai. I’ve been… waiting to tell her about Shinigami. So don’t mention anything like that. She’s…” you hesitate, scratching the back of your head. “… too young.”

Byakuya looks at you blandly for a moment, before inclining his head in a brief nod. “Very well.”

You don’t know why you’re trying to hide it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—and you’re not, you honestly couldn’t care less—but it seems like the sort of thing Byakuya would be a dick about. Then again, Byakuya probably already knows. He’s probably heard from Renji or someone and—hell, even if he hasn’t, when he’s standing this close he should be able to tell anyway.

Your daughter doesn’t have even a hint of spiritual power.

 

* * *

 

Her small, gentle hand cups your face. “She’s not a monster,” Rukia whispers. “And neither are you.”

 

* * *

 

Byakuya returns at twleve o’clock sharp and it pisses you off a little that even in his gigai’s street clothes, he manages to come off looking like some kind of modern prince.

Before he arrived, you had just barely managed to convince Akane to get dressed for the visit, so when she flounces downstairs in a worn pair of shorts and a t-shirt barely better than her banana-print pajamas, you almost groan.

Byakuya is his usual cold, reserved self, sitting opposite Akane, who shifts and fidgets anxiously under his cool regard, eyes wide as she darts nervous looks at the _celebrity_ on your shabby couch. You sigh and go to get some tea or something ready, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve got guests, right? Or something.

When you get back with the tea and some snacks that aren’t composed of a various different flavors of sugar, Byakuya does not appear to have moved a millimeter, but Akane has somehow acquired a bright pink stuffed rabbit.

You freeze, staring for a long moment at your stoic brother-in-law, who remains as still and unreadable as a statue.

Akane hops down from her seat and rushes to you, giggling. “Daddy, look what uncle Byakuya got me!”

 

* * *

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Having your baby, or did you forget?” she snarks, with a laugh that cut off abruptly as another contraction shudders through her.

The room is incased in ice. You breath comes out in white mist, but Rukia’s, as she lies panting hard on the bed, does not. Her reiatsu fills the room—it brushes against you, cool and gentle as snowflakes on your shoulders—but a dark, ugly _something_ eats away at the core of her.

“Rukia! This is serious! It’s not a baby any more, it’s a _monster_.”

“I can save her,” she says, her eyes hard but turned inward. She gasps as another contraction rips through her. You can feel her reiatsu incasing the tumor, the vile black-red creature’s power, wrapping it up carefully, trying to contain it as it lashes out like… like an angry child. You try to grab her hand, but her body is so cold it _burns_.

“And die in the process?” you whisper hoarsely.

She smiles.

“Isn’t that what motherhood is all about?”

 

* * *

 

“How was your date?”

You pause, glancing up at Akane who hovers on the stairway, curling her toes in the hem of her pajama pants and watching as you shuck your shoes.

“It wasn’t a date,” you say, frowning. She’s only eleven. Too young to know anything about dating. And too young to be awake this late.

“It wasn’t?”

“Inoue’s just an old friend. You’ve met her before, remember? Besides, what are you still doing up? You have school tomorrow.”

Akane clutches the railing and looks down for a moment. When she looks up again, her expression is set, determined. “Daddy if… if you ever want to date someone, I don’t mind. You don’t have to worry about me.”

You freeze in the process of putting your coat away.

“And y’know it’s been like… eleven years since mom died.”

You know. Of course you know. You try to forget but what kind of father would you be if you didn’t remember how old your own daughter was?

“And, I mean, I’m just saying—”

“Akane,” you interrupt. “It wasn’t a date.”

You glance at your daughter, who still hovers chastened and uncertain on the stairwell. With a sigh, you wonder if you were being too harsh, but the idea of anyone replacing Rukia rankles. You don’t _want_ to replace her. You don’t want to move on. You don’t want to forget (and sometimes it’s so, so hard to keep those memories close—like pieces of broken glass, you have to pick through them carefully to avoid cutting yourself on them).

“Dad,” Akane says suddenly and you’re jerked from your muddled thoughts. “Do you…” she looks at you with her mother’s eyes—solemn and unwavering. “Do you ever blame me for… for taking mom away from you?”

You freeze. If there was one thing you never wanted to hear her say, it was that. You’ve never wanted her to think that even for a _moment_. You wanted to love her so much that the sting of Rukia’s loss never became a wall between you. You never thought you’d want to take a page from your father’s book on parenting, but to his credit, the man never made you feel unwanted or guilty. Never made you feel as if he blamed you for the empty seat at the table.

“Of course I don’t blame you,” you say maybe a little too harshly. “Rukia and I love you more than anything. I just—I’m just not ready to let her go.”

 

* * *

 

“Fool,” she whispers between pants, and her hand is gentle and warm as it palms your cheek, smearing your tears. “What an ugly face. Are you really going to let such a pathetic sight be the last thing I see?”

You try to smile for her, but you can’t feel your face.

 

* * *

 

“What time is kendo practice over tonight?” you ask, as Akane scrambles to cram all her homework into her bag, sweeping all the papers off the dining table.

“Uhhh, six-thirty probably, if clean-up doesn’t take too long.”

“Since I’m only at the clinic until three today, how about I pick you up?”

Akane tosses a frown over her shoulder at you, ponytail bouncing, as she shoves her feet into her shoes and brushes her bangs from her face. “Dad, I’m _fifteen_ , I don’t need you to pick me up after school.”

“Hey, let your old man do something nice for you for once, alright? We can get ramen or something for dinner.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs, a sound full of teenage angst. “Fiiine. See you tonight.”

“See you.”

The door slams shut.

_Fifteen_ , you think. _She’s already fifteen_.

Fifteen was when you met Rukia. When you became a substitute Shinigami. When you went to Soul Society and became friends with Renji and Ishida and Inoue. When you invaded Heuco Mundo and defeated Aizen.

Fifteen was when your whole life changed.

But fifteen feels like an eternity ago.

Time has been going by so fast. You stare down into the last dregs of coffee sloshing around in the mug Akane got you for Father’s Day.

It’s been fifteen years, three months, and eight days since Rukia died and Akane was born. The dreams of Rukia have never stopped—and you don’t want them to—but world has become bearable and even a little bright.

You wonder what kind of face you’re making now.

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes at the end so I don't spoil the fic! This was written for IchiRuki month, day 11: children. I tried to make it not immediately clear that she died in childbirth, but posting it for this theme kinda spoils it I probably should’ve added more parts to this but I got lazy and not all the parts I have are that great, since I was kinda forcing them. Anyway, if it was unclear, Rukia sacrificed herself to destroy Akane’s Hollow, unfortunately taking her Shinigami powers with it. As for why Masaki didn’t have this problem with Ichigo or the twins, well, she was a Quincy! And alive. And the children were perfectly balanced all four ways. Akane was 75% Shinigami, so I guess the Hollow part got out of control somehow idk. It’s fanfic. Thanks for reading! :D


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